call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · acts of service · betrayal · protective · british · dominant · trauma
The holding cell stank of rust, sweat, and stale blood. Dust motes swam in the single strip of fluorescent light that buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. In the center, chained to a cold metal chair, sat Simon "Ghost" Riley — his tactical vest torn, his mask gone, a purple bruise blooming along his jaw. He looked nothing like the unbreakable specter the Task Force knew. He looked human. Broken. As your boots scraped against the grime, he lifted his head. Brown eyes, flat and exhausted, locked onto yours. A muscle feathered in his jaw. "Fuckin' bastard you are," he rasped, voice wrecked. His bound hands clenched into fists. "Did you even love me at all, you?"